


Heart-Healthy

by draculard



Category: Broadchurch
Genre: Alec Hardy's Broken Heart, Alec Hardy's Eating Habits (or lack thereof), F/M, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Medical Procedures, Mild Humor, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Takes place in Series 2, mild whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-13 03:46:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20575931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draculard/pseuds/draculard
Summary: It's only when Ellie's driving home from the hospital that she realizes something so simple it makes her feel like the world's biggest bloody idiot.





	Heart-Healthy

It’s only as Ellie’s driving home from the hospital that she realizes something so simple it makes her feel like the world’s biggest bloody idiot. Rage is still simmering in her like a thin skin of curdled milk over a pot of boiling anxiety, and her knuckles are white on the steering wheel, and when this realization unfurls in her mind it sends a sensation through her body like someone’s tossed a glass of cool water over her head.

She curses under her breath.

She pulls over to the side of the road, letting a lorry fly past her. In the grass, with her car tilting to one side in the narrow ditch, she slams her palm against the steering wheel, never mind the horn.

Of course he can’t drink coffee.

Of course he can’t eat fish and chips.

And of _ course _ that’s why he said, “I can’t eat that,” (_can’t, _ not _ won’t_) with that stupid fucking kicked-puppy look on his face when she picked apart the grease-soaked newspaper that time she brought him dinner. 

Because he’s got a stupid bloody _ broken heart, _ that imbecile — and she should have _ known, _ of course, because it fits all too well with Hardy’s ridiculous troubled-workaholic-too-busy-for-sleep modus operandi for him to decline a cup of coffee. Men like Hardy thrive off coffee, they live off it as much as they can. It should have sent alarm bells ringing in Ellie’s head the moment he first said no. 

She leans her forehead against the steering wheel, now that she’s done pounding on it, and pokes through the scrim of rage in her mind to the anxiety boiling underneath. She doesn’t know all the foods heart patients must avoid off the top of her head, but she knows some of them: caffeine, obviously. Fried foods, obviously. Sugar, salt, red meat.

The staples of an Ellie Miller lunch, really. The ingredients of practically everything she’s ever offered Hardy, and everything he’s ever turned down, and everything she’s ever snarked at him over because she didn’t _ know. _

Christ. She grinds the heel of her palm into her eyes.

He could have died today.

_ Christ. _And she refused to even drive him home — and why? Because she was worried, because that made her pissed? Because she had to take that anger out on him?

Mentally, she takes the pot of out-of-control emotions off the stove and dumps it out the kitchen window, over a scraggly rosebush which had been poking out of the soil every year since she and Joe first bought the house. She throws the empty pot in the sink.

She shakes her head, starts the car again, and carefully pulls back onto the road.

* * *

Their desire to avoid any sort of heavy conversation is mutual: they don’t mention the surgery or anything else (the trial, the case, their troublesome former spouses) for at least a week. Though Ellie visits his house while Hardy is ill, she’s effectively blocked by his ex-wife anytime she tries to get too close — the best look she gets of him is of Hardy asleep, wrapped in a ratty old jumper and a plaid blanket so hard it looks like it's become a hard, coarse scrap. His hair is falling over his eyes, and suddenly she's unsure whether she's ever seen his eyes closed in a natural sleep rather than a medical one.

And then, before she knows it, before she can really process how she feels about Tess's busybody presence or the surgery or the fact that she refused to drive him home, he’s back. Still pale, still thin, still Shit Face.

In the morning, when they meet at the courthouse for another round of stroke-inducing testimony and even more abrasive cross-examinations, she passes him a styrofoam cup and he starts to take it, then stops, drawing his fingers back like he's been electrified, then says, “I don’t—” 

And Ellie finishes, “—drink coffee.”

And they stare at each other, his eyes searing into hers (_as dark as chocolate,_ she thinks, and then she just _has_ to grimace at herself), his eyebrows knotted, until Ellie rolls her eyes and says, “It’s tea, you knob.”

He takes the cup with a scowl, his fingers brushing hers. “It’s _ shite _ tea,” he corrects after one sip, but he still drinks it. He nurses it through the first few hours of today’s trial, making faces at the back of Sharon Bishop’s head each time she tops herself with some comment even more offensive than the last. He keeps both palms on the cup, letting the warmth of it leech into his skin.

When recess comes at midday, Ellie grabs Hardy by the arm (he feels so thin beneath the fabric of his coat) and says brusquely, “Come on. We’re doing lunch.”

His only complaint is a faint, judicious “Ach,” as he falls into step beside her; the other court-goers stare, of course, after the allegations Bishop made regarding their _(ludicrous_, Ellie tells herself, _utterly fictitious)_ liaisons. At this point, Ellie is so used to staring that she barely notices it. And Hardy is immune to judgmental stares as a matter of course; he lets her take her arm, and he only pulls away briefly, to toss his empty Styrofoam cup into a bin.

They’re two blocks down before he finds it in him to summon up a real complaint.

“Miller, you’re walking my legs off — and I’m not even hungry.”

“Oh, shut up,” says Ellie. She looks both ways and then pulls him across the street (quickly, because it’s not exactly clear of oncoming traffic) to one of those sometimes-not-shitty chain restaurants she’s come to view as fine dining since having kids. Hardy lags behind her, refusing to quicken his pace, forcing Ellie to yank even harder on his arm until they're finally at the front door.

“_Ach,_” says Hardy again, with more feeling this time. He eyes the peeling advertisement attached to the window with the same sort of expression he typically reserves for murderers in the interrogation room: the ad displays the thickest, greasiest burger and chips Ellie has ever seen, drizzled with melted cheese, topped with crisp bacon, with lettuce, with onions and mushrooms and—

And now she’s practically drooling, and her stomach is growling, and she’s ready to pick Hardy up and bodily throw him into the restaurant if he won’t go willingly.

“Come _ on,_” she says, and tugs him inside. Inside, she blinks rapidly in an attempt to adjust to the sudden lack of sun. Beside her, Hardy seems positively faint; he leans against the wall for a moment, shaking his head.

To the hostess, Ellie says, “Table for two,” holding up two fingers in a redundant gesture Hardy would surely roast her for if he weren’t too busy rolling his eyes. 

The hostess leads them past tables full of elderly couples and businesswoman with their friends (and families with small children which make both Ellie and Hardy avert their eyes, throats tightening, neither of them fully aware of the other's reaction) to a small booth tucked away in the corner next to a dubious-looking buffet. Hardy sinks into the leather seats with a huff; he doesn’t bother to look at his menu.

When the waitress comes to take their orders, Hardy says, “Just tea.”

And Ellie says, “He’ll have the grilled salmon. I’ll have the McMonster Deluxe.”

The look Hardy gives her as the waitress leaves is a mixture of pleasant surprise and mild disgust. His eyebrows can't seem to decide whether it's appropriate to glare at her or not. In the end, he just grunts, a barely audible sound, and swallows a smile, and looks away.

Still, he very nearly smiles at her, and that’s good enough for Ellie.

Salmon, she’s read, is excellent for wounded (not broken) hearts.


End file.
